


for days to come (when we'd be all right)

by nohrg



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Gen, double dragonborns means double the fun, eventual found family feels, i have thirty lore tabs open and you can't stop me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 07:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nohrg/pseuds/nohrg
Summary: Shiasir Snowclaw just wanted to believe that peace had come and she could retire from the "saving the world" business. When one of her thieves goes missing, however, she's dragged back into a world of conspiracies and old rivalries.





	1. Prologue: Sovngarde

_Dovahkriid._  
  
She burned.  
  
The rush of power, the roaring winds, that last, thunderous Shout.  
  
The soul of Alduin, the child of Akatosh, the World-Eater, tore at her flesh and seared her soul. It flooded her, overpowered her. It burned.  
  
The bones of Alduin blazed and melted, the first child of Akatosh’s scales falling away, the World-Eater’s dying howl swearing vengeance.  
  
She gasped, as the last of Alduin’s soul was absorbed into her own. She heard distant shouts from behind her, the clatter of steel and stone as the heroes of Sovngarde ran to her.  
  
She fell to her knees, to the solid ground below her, as her head swam. Warriors of old surrounded her, determining if she was alive, or if she had joined them in the afterlife with her last, greatest battle.  
  
She was only eighteen.  
  
Everything hurt.  
  
She needed _su, su’um, ven_. Air. She needed air.  
  
There were too many people around her, stealing her breath. She coughed, a horrid wheezing noise. “_Praag su_,” she whispered hoarsely, her tongue clumsy and swollen.  
  
Talos, why wouldn’t the common tongue come to her? Why was it only the dragon tongue?  
  
“Everyone, back off!” a familiar, gruff voice called out. In her blurry vision, she saw a head of flaming red hair cut through the crowd of ghosts, as alive as she was. In a quieter voice, he murmured to her, “Let’s get you home, Shy.”  
  
Home. Home sounded good right now. The warm sands and jungle winds called to her, the scent of moon sugar on the wind as darkness overtook her vision. She felt off balance, off kilter, like nothing would ever stand still again.  
  
A shout, no, a Shout rang out, and the sound of an open portal shimmered in the air. Warm arms gathered her up.  
  
Her eyes finally closed, and she fell into the darkness.  
  


* * *

  
It was supposed to be his time of glory. He was Dovahkiin, General Fireblade, Harbinger. The greatest living hero of Skyrim. A true son of the North, with burning red hair and eyes of ice, clad in traditional Nordic armor with Skyforge steel at his back.  
  
He was there, in Sovngarde, to meet the heroes of legend, to slay the World-Eater he’d heard about in stories as a child. To meet the dread dragon in glorious battle, Shout against Shout, steel against claw.  
  
And yet…  
  
And yet.  
  
Here he was, at the peak of Monahven, with the slayer of Alduin unconscious in his arms.  
  
He was a failure.  
  
The hero of legend, the hero that was promised, was not him. Was not of the sons of Skyrim, not of the line of Ysgrammor, not the proclaimed Dragonborn.  
  
It was this girl, barely an adult. It was this Khajiit, an exile from her home.  
  
It was not him.  
  
He roared into the sky, Shouting out his anger and rage and frustration as dragons circled above.  
  
He exhaled, licks of flame at the corners of his mouth. He looked down at the girl thoughtfully.  
  
She was a thief, a spy. She dwelled in the shadows, the Snowclaw to his Fireblade. She never liked attention from the common citizens of Skyrim.  
  
They were the only two who knew what happened in Sovngarde.  
  
No one else on Mundus knew what happened.  
  
No one else had to.  
  
He knew enough about medicine to know that she would have a long recovery. If he spread the word, let the rest of Skyrim know that he killed the World-Eater…  
  
Yes, that might work.  
  
If she was awake, the true dovahkriid might even have agreed to the plan.  
  
At least, that’s what he chose to believe.


	2. Five Years Later

Shiasir Snowclaw, Guildmaster and Nightingale, paced in the Ragged Flagon, her dark brown tail swishing in the air. “You’re telling me that somehow you misplaced Delvin? Of all the bleeding sugar drunk people, _Delvin fucking Mallory_ is missing?!”  
  
Vex shrugged, though Shiasir noted that she kept a hand tensing on her dagger hilt. “I thought he was behind me, and when I realized he wasn’t I thought he was just going to return here.”  
  
Shiasir felt a rush of anger and frustration, and she slammed a fist down on the bar, claws digging into the palm of her hand. _Sum ko, sum tir_, she told herself, steadying her breath before she lashed out at an actual person.  
  
_Sum yol_, an unhelpful, destructive voice in the back of her mind told her.  
  
Shut up, she thought with a snarl. Calmed down somewhat, she turned around to face Vex. “What was the job?”  
  
Evidently, she wasn’t calm enough, as Vex snapped into a military stance. Old habits died hard, Shiasir supposed.  
  
“Proudspire Manor, in Solitude,” Vex said, as if giving a superior officer a report, rather than the casual banter between thieves. “We’ve been after the Barenziah stones for–”  
  
“Gods know how long you two have been searching for all of them,” Shiasir snorted. “Proudspire. What do we know about it?”  
  
“Used to belong to the Proudspire family,” Vex replied, relaxing her stance slightly. “At least, until they all died in the Great War. It’s been sitting abandoned for the better part of thirty years now, and no one’s bothered to loot it because supposedly the family had sold off everything of worth to help fund the war.”  
  
Shiasir leaned back against her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What went wrong?”  
  
Vex spat on the ground. “It was occupied, that’s what. Fucking elves broke in first.”  
  
Shiasir’s eyes narrowed. “Elves?”  
  
“A pair of them that we could hear, talking about giving something to the Thalmor. Maybe more, but I only heard two voices in the basement.” Vex sighed. “Delvin wanted to get out of there, but I wanted to know who they were. So we went to listen in and…”  
  
She trailed off, her eyes haunted. “Something flashed blue. I was a bit blinded. I bolted, and when I could finally see again, I was halfway across the city and Delvin was nowhere to be seen.”  
  
Shiasir frowned, yellow eyes narrowing. “Blue, you said? Anything else about it?”  
  
“If there was anything else, I would have said it,” Vex snapped.  
  
“Easy there, lass,” Brynjolf said as he walked into the conversation bearing mugs of mead. “We’re all worried about Delvin. Go cool down.”  
  
Vex clenched her jaw, made a military perfect about-face, and stalked off.  
  
“So, your thoughts, Guildmaster?” Brynjolf asked once their friend had left.  
  
“I think that I need to go to Solitude. Can you handle things at home?”  
  
“Aye, though I’ll be gladder when Karliah’s back from Windhelm to help. I think you should to take backup, though.”  
  
“No. Someone else would just get underfoot.” Shiasir let out a grin that masked her own unease. “Don’t worry, I’ll have Delvin back in a flash.”  
  
Brynjolf let out a long-suffering sigh. “Take care, lass.”

* * *

_Her first steps into Skyrim, that fabled northern land where one could disappear into the wilderness, where the winds howled and cold tore through unsuspecting desert Khajiit, those first steps were into the middle of a war._  
  
_A border skirmish, really. Warriors in blue were attacking an Imperial supply caravan. Guerrilla tactics she’d seen all her life in Elsweyr, this was nothing new. The warriors were skilled, clearly, but they were not up to handling a well-guarded caravan. She would have ordered them to pick off soldiers one by one from the trees before attacking, not rush into the open road and lose the tactical advantage._  
  
_With a shrug, she tried to skirt around the battle, with her bag full of moon sugar and light feet. She knew an old friend of her father’s traded in Skyrim, and she hoped she would be able to find Ri’saad sooner rather than later._  
  
_She stumbled into an Imperial scout, who was just as startled to see a wandering Khajiit. The soldier was quicker on the uptake, and he had a sword at her throat in a moment._  
  
_She was bound, her bag of sugar and weapons confiscated, and tossed onto a card with the warriors in blue, bound for the border town of Helgen._  
  
_Her gut churned with unease. To trade in moon sugar was to pay a fine when caught, or serve time. To be caught in the middle of a guerrilla raid…_  
  
_She did not think she would be enjoying a long stay in Helgen._

* * *

Entering the city of Solitude was easy. Entering without being noticed, as Shiasir intended, was not.  
  
Three day’s hard ride from Riften landed her at the border of Hjaalmarch and Haafingar. From there, she would take another day on foot to the secret entrance beneath the cliffs that Gulum-ei had shown her once.  
  
Shiasir stabled her horse with a small band of smugglers that operated out of an abandoned manor up the road from Ustengrav. She shuddered at the memory of delving into that ancient Nordic ruin.  
  
That was years past now, and her missing guild member was a more pressing concern.  
  
Shiasir picked her way carefully through the marshes of Hjaalmarch, avoiding the nests of frostbite spiders and the various necromancers practicing at secret shrines. The godsforsaken landscape seemed to attract dark mages wanting fresh bodies and no prying eyes.  
  
An abandoned fishing shack marked the halfway point to Solitude. After checking to make sure it was unoccupied, Shiasir quietly picked the lock and crept in to seek a few hours rest.  
  
The shack was a mess. Furniture haphazardly piled in the corners collecting dust, old bloodstains on the floor, skeletons long since picked clean by rats and skeevers.  
  
Shiasir did not want to know what happened here, nor did she care. There was a small space between an upturned table and the wall, and she decided to rest there on the small chance someone wanted to use the shack as a murderhouse again. At least this way, she wasn’t visible from the door.  
  
She’d dozed for maybe an hour before the door creaked open. Shiasir was instantly alert, though she stayed hidden behind the table, her hand on her daggers.  
  
There was a small hole in the table, just enough to see something going on. A tall argonian in dark red and black leathers stood in the doorway, eyes flicking back and forth over the room. With a shrug, he threw a bound prisoner onto the ground.  
  
“P-please don’t kill me!” the prisoner begged. “I’ll pay you anything!”  
  
“Unfortunately, I do not make the contracts, land-strider,” the argonian said with a soft, sibilant voice. “I merely take them.” With an arrow in his hand, he thrust downward, killing the prisoner in one blow.  
  
Shiasir’s blood ran cold. She knew this man only by reputation, but what a reputation it was. The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood was not a man to be crossed, or a man for a wayward thief to be caught by.  
  
The Listener kicked the body, making sure his victim was dead. He turned to leave the shack and paused at the door. Shiasir’s breath caught in her throat, and she was prepared to Shout as his gaze swept the room.  
  
The Listener hummed to himself, satisfied, and left.  
  
She waited one moment, two, before sighing in relief, wisps of ice on her breath. Slowly and cautiously, Shiasir stood up and examined the body of the woman.  
  
A high elf, perhaps a hundred years old. Hands that worked magic, not trade. Damningly, a symbol of the Aldmeri Dominion on a chain around her neck, underneath common laborer’s clothes.  
  
Shiasir would hold no sympathy for a Thalmor spy, but she would listen carefully at the door to be certain the Listener had left.  
  
It was quiet outside, with distant sounds of spiders and magic. Shiasir slowly let the door swing open, ready to bolt if she was wrong.  
  
She thanked S’rendarr for small mercies, as the Listener had in fact left.  
  
She set out on the foot trail to Solitude under the cover of the remaining hours of night.  
  
For the rest of the trek, her thumb nervously traced the symbol of Oblivion on her dagger.

* * *

_She had seen many towns like this Helgen in the north of Cyrodiil. A blond nord lamented about juniper berry mead and a girl he was once sweet on from this village. The redhead to his side grunted in agreement, while the horse thief had a nervous breakdown at his poor luck. The nord in furs, this Ulfric Stormcloak, was stone-faced despite the gag._  
  
_Their cart rolled to a stop, and an Imperial soldier noted down all their names. The blond nord, Ralof, spat at his feet, muttering about traitors and childhoods in a voice she almost could not catch. The redheaded Frey stood with his head held high, a glare leveled at the Legate next to the soldier. The horse thief Lokir made a run for it, and he was shot down in the street for his troubles, blood painting the cobblestones red._  
  
_Ulfric Stormcloak remained stone-faced, not giving the Imperials any reaction. He ignored all of them, save for a high elf in a Thalmor hood observing the events from afar. She alone earned the glare of the rebel leader._  
  
_“Wait, this one’s not on the list,” the Imperial soldier said as he got to her._  
  
_“She’ll go to the block anyway,” the Legate said coldly. “She had a bag full of moon sugar on her.”_  
  
_“By your orders, Captain,” the soldier said, a hint of regret in his voice. “Give us your name, so we can send your remains to your family in Elsweyr.”_  
  
_She snorted. “This one has no family anymore, soldier. Not in Elsweyr, not on Nirn. But this one’s name is Shiasir Raihan.” If she were going to die, at least she would die with her name._  
  
_A priestess gave a blessing to the Imperial Eight, to the annoyance of one Stormcloak warrior. This man stepped forward to be the first to die, the name of his god Talos on his lips._  
  
_Shiasir understood, as she took the moment to pray to her own gods. S’rendarr, for mercy and an easy death. Khenarthi, to send her soul quickly to the Sands Behind the Stars. Baan Dar, for something, anything, that would let her keep living._  
  
_She was pushed forward, whether by soldier or warrior she did not know. She knelt at the block, eyes closed and resigned to her fate._  
  
_She heard the headsman pick up his axe, and then a great, thundering roar as the world fell apart._

* * *

Proudspire Manor was a death trap. Not because it was purposely rigged with tripwires and pressure plates; Shiasir could handle those. But decades of neglect meant the whole place was rotting with holes in the floor.  
  
As softly as she could, Shiasir whispered _laas_, the word of power that would let her see if there were any living beings in the building.  
  
She saw no bodies marked by a glowing red, and she hoped there weren’t any undead nearby. A dagger was out in her hand, a simple elven blade that was fast and light.  
  
Though she tread lightly and muffled herself with magic, the floorboards creaked under Shiasir’s steps.  
  
Silently cursing, she swept through the upper floors of the house. There was nothing remarkable, just dust and broken furniture and mementos of a family long dead.  
  
Which left the basement. Where Delvin disappeared.  
  
With a soft sigh, Shiasir crept down into the dank and musty floor. Past rotten barrels with mummified remains of food, past a broken enchanting table still sparking with magic, past a nauseating alchemy chamber, she found a nearly bare room right before the servant entrance.  
  
She paused at the threshold. It was bare. Completely, save for a single rug that was years newer than anything else in this manor. No dust, no broken shelves.  
  
Shiasir looked out of the corners of her eye, trying to catch the tell-tale glimmer of a rune on the floor.  
  
There, just beneath the rug, was an ice-blue ring, barely visible from where she stood.  
  
A key turned in the door. In a flash, Shiasir was in the bare chamber, hidden behind the door.  
  
She heard grumbling, a deep voice that sounded recognizable, if only she could place–  
  
A familiar shock of red hair, streaked grey over the past five years. Nordic armor barely changed save for nicks and dings that weren’t there the last time she’d seen it. A sword made of the finest Skyforge steel, glowing like an ember in its sheath.  
  
Shiasir felt sick to her stomach with twisting feelings of relief and new worries. Even five years later, she had no desire to see Frey Svenson in person, not with this many confused feelings.  
  
Evidently, Frey noticed the same rune circle that she had. Instead of avoiding it, he pulled out his blade and scratched the circle.  
  
Though Frey stood still in the resulting blast, Shiasir was caught off guard. The icy wind slammed into the door she hid behind, knocking her down to the ground.

* * *

_It was a miracle that she was still alive. The headsman was not so lucky. As the stones rained down upon them and the dragon stared down at her, Shiasir scrabbled into the remains of the keep, following the redheaded nord Frey as he called for her._  
  
_A dragon. Shiasir started to cackle. S’rendarr’s mercy indeed._  
  
_Frey looked at her with worry as they climbed the stairs, leading the rest of these Stormcloak warriors out._  
  
_Shiasir heard a rumbling roar and the beat of powerful wings on the air. She stopped a moment before the top of the stairs, and Frey bumped behind her._  
  
_“Oi–” he started, until the walls knocked in and the black dragon breathed flames on the poor scouts who were already on the landing. The stones fell away as the dragon pushed off the wall of the keep and back into the sky._  
  
_“This one has better hearing than you,” Shiasir said simply, her swishing tail betraying her nervousness._  
  
_“Noted, come on,” Frey muttered as he pushed on, jumping through the hole in the wall to the roof of the next building over. _  
  
_The pair of them crept through the chaos in the village, avoiding the dragon and his flames as much as possible._  
  
_They were nearly caught by an Imperial soldier, the one who had taken their names down. Frey shoved him to the ground as he barreled into Helgen Keep._  
  
_Shiasir followed. What else was she to do?_

* * *

Shiasir groaned as she woke to a raging headache. Her vision swam before she was able to focus.  
  
She immediately regretted it, as Frey Svenson’s face was there, looking concerned.  
  
“Shy? What in hell's name are you doing here?” he asked.  
  
Shiasir swore as she sat up. “It’s Snowclaw to you. I’m looking for a missing guild member. The fuck are you doing here?”  
  
“I… Falk Firebeard asked me to look into some odd noises that someone heard coming out of here. I’m so–”  
  
“Don’t,” Shiasir snarled, her tail lashing. Frey immediately shut up. She stood up and looked at where the rune circle once was. “A trapdoor, huh?”  
  
“Aye, looks like,” Frey said with a nod. “It wasn’t on the floor plans I found in the palace, either.”  
  
She walked over to the trapdoor and knelt down to examine it. “It’s newer than the rest of the place. The wood’s different than the rest of the doors.”  
  
Frey knelt down beside her. “We better find out where it goes.”  
  
“We?” Shiasir exclaimed. “In what gods forsaken plane do you think ‘we’ comes into play here, Svenson?”  
  
Frey held up his hands. “Easy there, Sh… Snowclaw. But I never go diving into the unknown without a Shield Sibling.”  
  
“It’s my missing guild member.”  
  
“And helping the people of Skyrim is my job.”  
  
Shiasir growled and muttered under her breath.  
  
“I didn’t catch that, lass,” Frey said.  
  
“Our,” Shiasir spat. “It’s our job, _Dovahkiin_.” With that, she yanked the trapdoor open and jumped down into the darkness below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovah'zul Glossary:  
"sum ko, sum tir" - breathe in, breathe out  
"sum yol" - breathe fire

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as a rewrite of a Skyrim fanfic I wrote in high school because I started playing again, and spiraled out of control to look absolutely nothing like the old fic. I have a general outline of the story and know the major beats, but I write terribly slowly so no guarantees on timely updates.
> 
> Dovah'zul Glossary:  
"dovahkriid" - dragonslayer  
"su, su’um, ven" - air, breath, wind  
"praag su" - [I] need air


End file.
